


45 minute drive

by bunkuto



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Car Sex, Choking, Friends to Lovers, Hand & Finger Kink, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Tags May Change, Unrequited Love, fellas yall ever have dreams about driving with ur bestie but in a homoerotic way, just a lil bit of weed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28755336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunkuto/pseuds/bunkuto
Summary: “I mean yeah.” George relents, a fond grin on his face. “But, um, I feel like he would be a decent driver when he’s not breaking traffic laws. He would be a good teacher. Patient.”dream wants to take george out for a spin. too bad they're separated by miles of ocean and endless walls of miscommunication.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 91
Kudos: 420





	1. in my imagination

**Author's Note:**

> hi so minecraft block men are infiltrating my brain so i decided to write a fic help!! hope u enjoy

Dream’s driving on an empty stretch of road. 

He blinks, looking around his surroundings. It’s dark, almost pitch black outside and the only source of light seems to be coming from the weak headlights of his car. The silence, the utter lack of life outside his bubble of metal and leather seats rings in his ears. 

“You’re going a bit slow.” 

Dream nearly slams on the brake in surprise. 

Glancing to his right, he sees the speaker sitting right beside him in the passenger’s seat. 

With dark hair and pale skin, the man is heartbreakingly gorgeous in the way most people could only dream of being. There’s an aloof air to him, Dream realizes, something impenetrable in his delicate features and sharp angles. Even while sitting in Dream’s dingy car, he holds himself like a king, shoulders back, spine stiff. 

_Yet_. Yet, there is something strangely soft in the gaze pinned on Dream. He looks terrifying. He looks beautiful. 

And most of all, he is familiar. 

“George.” Dream breathes out. The words taste like an unfinished prayer on the tip of his tongue, too abrupt to mean anything truly important, but too sacred to be meaningless. “George.” He tries again. 

George blinks at him, faint confusion weaving its way through his brows. He waits. 

“George.” Dream says again, because, really, it feels like that's the only thing he's capable of saying now. Something rests on the tip of his tongue (a plea? a confession?). It stays there, hanging on by a flimsy thread.

“Ask the question.” George murmurs.

Dream opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. The words stay glued to him—unfamiliar and heavy. “I _can’t_. What am I supposed to ask you that I don't know already?” He manages through clenched teeth, through the iron weight of half written proclamations. Frustration burns hot and low in his gut. 

George sighs. Disappointment paints his features in soft, heart wrenching shades almost too upsetting for Dream to look at. 

“Just drive then, Dream.” Resting his chin in his hand, George stares out the window. “You'll figure it out soon enough.”

So close but yet so far. 

Heart sinking, Dream tears his eyes away from the boy in the passenger seat and focuses back on the endless road ahead of him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


A melodic jingle jolts Dream awake. 

Dream starts, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

“Wh-what?” He weakly mutters. 

His surroundings and senses come back to him all at once, like a very sudden, unpleasant tidal wave. He’s curled in his bed, sheets bunched at his ankles, phone right beside his face and ringing very loudly. Patches meows annoyed from somewhere near the corner of the bedl, probably pissed at having been woken up by her owner’s godforsaken phone. Dream can’t really blame her. 

He struggles up to his elbows and reaches to answer the call, wincing as the brightness of the screen painfully hits his eyes. 

“Hello?” He says, wincing at the raspiness of his morning voice. 

“Morning.” An amused voice says back to him. Something in Dream’s stomach turns at the sound of the familiar accent curling around the single word, drawing out the vowels comically. 

“George.” He whispers. “ _George_.”

“That _is_ my name.” George replies back patiently. “Did you sleep well? You crashed pretty early last night.”

Dream flops back on his back, phone pressed tightly to his ear. If he closes his eyes just tight enough and blocked out the sounds of the chirping cicadas outside his window, he can almost imagine George was beside him—lying shoulder to shoulder with him, his warmth against Dream’s warmth. 

He thinks back to the weird dream of the car with him and George separated by the console and an ocean of unspoken words.

“Yeah, sorry. Are our schedules out of sync now?” He murmurs, trying to keep his unnecessary worry from bleeding into his tone. George laughs, a quiet thing that sends Dream’s heart thumping a beat too fast. 

‘ _Calm down,’_ he tells his racing pulse sternly. ‘ _I_ _t’s only George. Stop panicking.’_

“No, don't worry about it. I fell asleep like an hour after you did.” Dream hears the smile in his words, can practically see the way it stretches across George’s angular face and curves gently around the corners. 

George’s smiles are hard-earned and rare but they are always outrageously beautiful. Dream still vividly remembers the zing of pure elation he had felt after the first time he had gotten George to full on belly-laugh at one of his jokes. He absentmindedly traces the curl of George’s familiar grin in the air with his free hand, gripping his phone impossibly closer with the other. 

“That’s good.” He breathes, voice low and relieved. 

“Yeah.” George replies back, soft and fond. A pause. Then: “Are you sick?” 

“Hmm? No, I don’t think so, I was just pretty tired.” Dream answers absentmindedly, lowering the brightness of his screen then scrolling through his notifications with practiced boredom.

A few late night texts from Sapnap, some messages on Discord from people in the SMP, several business emails he had been waiting on. As he swipes through his notification bar, his eye catches on an unread message from George himself. He clicks on it in muted surprise. 

Dream’s stomach jolts at sight. 

A low quality, grainy selfie of George smiling goofily at the camera. Dream takes in the turn of his lips and the brightness in his eyes before he even registers anything else in the photo. But when he finally tears his eyes away from George’s profile and down to his _outfit_ , a laugh erupts from his throat. 

“Were you cosplaying as yourself last night?” Dream wheezes in disbelief. 

George huffs and the receiver crackles on Dream’s end. “It was for the _stream_ .” He hisses as Dream fights to catch his breath. “I reached my sub goal and I promised I would— _don't be an arse_.” 

Dream bites back another bout of laughter and saves the photo, eyes tracing over the cyan shirt stretching over George's narrow shoulders and the outrageously hilarious clout goggles dangling off his nose. In the costume, at that angle, George is meant to look horrible, comedically so. Yet something about his sleepy smile paired with hooded eyes makes the picture almost...pretty—in a weirdly intimate way. 

_Pretty?_ Dream blinks. Where had _that_ come from? 

“You look like you were really feeling yourself in this photo, _Georgie_.” He teases, pointedly ignoring whatever alien thought that had infiltrated his brain just then. He waits patiently for George’s outraged splutters in response. 

“No, Dream! I was just—”

It really was too easy sometimes. 

“Hey, hey, no need to get defensive. If cosplay is what gets you going at night, then…” Dream lets the final word roll off his tongue in a drawl, oozing honey and sleazy amusement. He runs his fingers along his linen bedsheet, past his bunched up comforter, and finally settling on Patches’ tawny fur. She purrs loudly and the sound rumbles through her small body and up Dream’s hands. He absentmindedly pets her, antsy with anticipation for George’s move. 

_His move._

When had this become just another game to them? A push and pull where one of them always let go before the match actually tipped in someone’s favor? Dream wonders how long this strange, tense game is supposed to last, how long it can last. 

_He wonders why he doesn't particularly want it to end._

_“You'll figure it out soon enough.”_ George had said in the dream, looking out into the inky sky like he saw something other than pure darkness. Like he could see something Dream himself could not.

George just sighs dramatically, clearly fed up with having to explain himself. The rush of _something_ (adrenaline? excitement?) fizzles out in Dream’s stomach at the lackluster reaction. Well, that settles that for now. 

He clears his throat and changes the subject. 

“Other than that...sexy cosplay—”

George snorts. 

“—what else did I miss from the stream?” 

“Oh!” He can practically hear the way George jumps to life at that question. “So, Karl and Quackity decided that we should—” 

Dream doesn't need a video call to know that George is practically beaming brighter than the sun itself. He lets out a huff of amusement, too quiet for his phone to catch, too loud for himself to ignore. 

The minute hand on his shitty alarm clock inches by. 

“—And then Sapnap kills me!” George bemoans, finishing his story with a grandiose flair that sends Dream rolling his eyes goodnaturedly. “He's such a little shit sometimes.” 

Dream laughs, running a finger over Patches’ belly, watching her flop onto her back and wiggle in pleasure. “Bold words from a man who’s five foot nothing.” 

“Shut up. You could be 4”11, nobody really knows.” There’s rustling on George’s end. Dream wonders what he’s doing thousands of miles away. Knowing George, he’s probably making shitty instant ramen or tidying up his mess of a room, his and Dream’s conversation being nothing but idle chatter to help pass the time.

_Or..._

Or maybe he too is sprawled in bed, with the phone cradled close to his ear and a slight blush staining his porcelain cheeks. And maybe George is straining to hear the affectionate rise and fall of Dream’s voice. And maybe, just _maybe_ , Dream’s chuckles and exhales mean something to him the same way all of his little quirks mean something to Dream. Dream clutches his phone tighter and _wishes_ for something he can't quite put into words. 

“Not everyone’s a dwarf like you, idiot.” He gets out. 

“Not everyone’s Big Foot either.” 

Dream rolls onto his side, narrowly avoiding crushing Patches who just meows in annoyance. “Well you know what they say about big feet—” 

“No.” George cuts him off, blunt. “No, I don’t.” 

Dream cackles. 

“The stream sounded good though.” He offers once his laughter dies down. “I’m sorry I missed it.” 

“We missed you.” George says simply. 

Something warm blooms in Dream’s chest at the raw unfiltered words of affection coming from George and he fights to bite back the sappy grin he knows is encompassing his face. 

‘ _Simp.’_ Something accusing in the back of his mind (a voice that oddly sounds like Sapnap’s) proclaims. 

_‘Shut up.’_ Dream thinks back. 

“Aww, George, sweetheart, did you miss me?” He croons into the receiver.

“I was talking about the fans.” George shoots back with practiced ease. There’s a slight hitch in his voice though, a noticeable sign that Dream’s question had thrown him off guard somewhat. Dream’s smile widens. 

“Oh yeah, _sure_ .” He snarks. He pulls himself up and out of his bed, shivering slightly from the loss of the warmth. As he pads over to where his laptop is charging on his desk, he murmurs. “I’ll watch it since the _viewers_ missed my presence so much. It’s the least I can do after, uh, depriving them of me for so long.” 

“Shut up.” George's automatic response, dry and playfully annoyed. Then he adds “You don't have to watch it.” in a sheepish, almost flustered tone that makes Dream raise his eyebrow in suspicion...Well, like _hell_ he isn't going to watch the stream now. 

“No, I think I’m gonna.” Dream gets on Twitch and finds George’s channel with practiced ease. As he clicks on the most recent stream, George’s voice explodes through the laptop speakers, laughing at something someone on call is saying. George—the real George, the George on the phone with Dream—makes an offended sound at the noise. 

“Are you really watching it _right now_?” He asks. His voice tilts at the end, bordering on incredulous. 

“What better time than the present?” Dream shoots back. He gives his attention to the stream as onscreen George begins addressing his chat.

“We’re gonna play GTA with the—” His grin is something hesitant, flickering like just lit candle. “—the _boys_.”

Cheers erupt from the other people on call with him. Distantly, Dream can make out Quackity exclaiming “That’s me! I’m boys!” and Sapnap snickering but his attention is caught on George again. 

Happiness is a good look on someone like him, Dream decides. Joy brightens George’s face and makes him practically glow from the inside out. Even in his stupid character cosplay, he’s arguably never been more gorgeous. Dream rests his chin in his palm and tries not to stare too hard at how the way George’s lips curl at the corners or how his eyes flicker from the game to the chat every so often. It’s a challenge. 

“Please stop watching that.” George, his George, sighs on the phone—embarrassment coloring his voice. “I’m literally _right_ here.”

“But I thought the stream last night was funny?” Dream mutes the video as he leans back in his seat, chuckling. “Don’t you want to go down memory lane with me?” Dream bats his eyelashes though the other clearly can't see and forces his voice to go as sugary sweet as he can manage. “ _Don’t you want to go down with me, George?_ ” 

There’s the briefest of pauses on George’s end, then—

“You're-” George stops, clearly at a loss for words. He sounds almost breathless. “You're _impossible_.” 

There’s something almost euphoric, almost addicting about talking to George like this. _It’s addicting_ , Dream muses, _to see the way George reacts to words—to_ **_his_ ** _words._ Like a fire, George’s reactions burn hot and beautiful. And like a single moth being repeatedly drawn back to the very same, lethal flame, Dream always goes back for more. 

“Thanks. Love you too.” He responds then, heart leaping at his throat and giddiness practically drowning out any other, more rational part of his brain. 

George exhales softly. “Okay well, I’m gonna go now. You can keep watching the stream since it means so much to you.”

“Hey, you don't have to—”

“I’m kidding, Dream.” George’s voice is kind, patient. “About the second part at least. My food is actually here so...”

Relief lets Dream slump slightly in his seat. “Oh okay. Call me back later?” Yikes. Even in his own ears, his voice sounds a bit pathetic and clingy. Why was he acting like this today?

“Sure.” is George’s blunt response. 

Dream hums. “You promise?”

George laughs. “Yeah, yeah. See you later, nerd.” 

He hangs up.

Dream is left with nothing but an empty dial tone in his ear and a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

He lets the silence settle for a moment, lets it seep into his bones and encase his joints in an almost comforting weight. Dream had always been a loud kid, he could talk and would talk to his heart’s content. He adored noise too, adored how rock music shook him down to his core and how video game sound effects made his ears buzz pleasantly. Even now, though he’s somewhat mellowed out over the years, he still doesn't like the quiet all that much. 

He thinks of George’s near silent laughter. 

Maybe he could grow to love the quiet. 

He considers the laptop screen again, eyes being drawn back to George's eager face as he plays GTA horribly with his friends—stream still muted. As his character gets run over by a wayward car, his face practically shines with uncontrollable laughter. Dream unmutes and shuffles towards his bed again, eager to pet Patches from the comfort of his bed, letting George’s voice act as soothing background noise for his day. 

He’s almost at his destination when Karl’s voice rings out from the speakers, amused and tinny. 

“On _that_ note, Dono just said ‘I’m actually thinking of buying a car soon. What do you guys drive and what car should I buy?’” 

A plethora of answers follow the question, some helpful, some not so much. Quackity shouts out names of various hot wheels as Bad actually tries to give good advice on cars. Dream mentally prays that the dono doesn't actually take any of what Bad is saying to heart. 

Quackity’s in the middle of some deep convoluted story about hot wheels lore that involves more explicit details than Dream cares to know about when Sapnap cuts in. 

“I’m not sure why they’re asking us for advice on cars. I mean George can’t even drive!”

Immediately the attention is turned on George. 

“Is this true?” Someone snorts. 

“Why?” Someone else asks.

George smiles awkwardly and shifts in his seat. “I—uh—I never really saw the point. I don't really need to drive to get anywhere.”

“But George, how will you be able to see us without a license?” Quackity whines. “How will you be able to see—” He pauses, whether it's for dramatic effect or if he’s genuinely thinking about his words, nobody really knows. “—How will you be able to see Dream?”

Dream starts at his name, heart pounding for some unknown reason. He stares at the screen, at George’s placid, pasted smile reflected back at him. 

A chorus of “oo’s” and overdramatic gasps follow the question. George rolls his eyes. 

“I can take a plane. I couldn't even see him— _er, you guys_ —by car.” 

“Can’t believe a thirty year old doesn't know how to drive.” Quackity says as he ignores George’s rational words completely. 

“So sad.” Karl agrees, sounding fake teary. 

“I’m only like 4 years older than most of you.” The argument is well worn, tinged with familiar annoyance and exasperation. George leans back and Dream’s eyes trace the motion, the way his shoulders flex and fall as he relaxes into it, the way the light hits George’s face differently at this angle—softer and less harsh. 

“But, _George_!” Quackity whines. “How will we recreate GTA when we meet up if you can't fucking drive?” 

“I just won't meet up with you.” George replies easily. 

“C’mon, George.” Bad interjects next. “It’s not hard, I can teach you.”

“You? No thanks.” 

“Why? Scared?”

“Of your driving? Definitely.”

A chorus of “oo’s” and laughter explode from the group yet again as George looks into the webcam, self satisfied. For a moment, as everyone quiets down and heads back into the game, it seems like the bit is finally over. 

Then Karl pipes up again. 

“George, if you could learn how to drive from one person here, who would you pick?”

George blinks, seemingly caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“Who would you pick as your driving teacher?”

“Is saying a driving instructor too—”

His question is met with unhappy protests. George huffs. 

“Fine. Um,” His eyes flicker around, as unreadable as ever. “Maybe...Dream?”

“He’s not even an option! He’s not even in the game!” Sapnap shouts, but his exclamation is drowned out by the others clamoring over him. 

Dream stares. 

_“You’re going a bit slow.”_ George had murmured in his dream, voice soft and carefully blank. 

_“Ask the question.”_ He had demanded from the passenger seat as Dream struggled and floundered in a bottomless sea of unspoken words. 

_“Just keep driving, Dream.”_ He had said. 

“Dream?” Bad says, with surprise. It’s a bit rich coming from the man who had gotten his car wrapped around a telephone pole and caused a power outage in his area. “Doesn’t he speed like crazy?”

“I mean yeah.” George relents, a fond grin on his face. “But, um, I feel like he would be a decent driver when he’s not breaking traffic laws. He would be a good teacher. Patient.”

The words ring in Dream’s ear, lodge themselves in his brain and _sticks_ there. Flashes of him and George in another life, sitting together in the car—George in the driver’s seat this time with Dream sitting next to him in passenger. George trying out the gear shift, face scrunching in confusion. George pulling out of a parking space with a concentrated look in his eyes and an arm around the back of Dream’s seat. George executing a sloppy turn with a stupid smile on his face. Him and George in his car driving to the unknown, together.

Dream never knew wanting something could weigh so heavily on his shoulders..

“ _Patient_.” Sapnap repeats, incredulous. “Dream’s a bitch, he would probably be a shitty teacher.” 

“Nah,” Quackity laughs. “He’ll be patient with George here.” The suggestive tone in his voice causes Dream’s cheeks to burn hot. 

“Okay, moving on.” George chuckles nervously. 

They do move on.

But Dream can’t. He stands in the middle of his bedroom, staring at his laptop and wishing...Wishing for what? Wanting what? He bites his lip and tries to organize the cacophony of thoughts exploding in his head as chaotic as an orchestra with no conductor. 

In the end, trying to untangle his mess of a mind does him no good. Every string, every connection all leads back to one, simple declaration. 

He wants to see George. 

A chime interrupts his thoughts. He squints down at his phone screen to see it lighting up with new notifications. 

Two new texts from George. Dream hurries to open the messages. 

There’s a blurry photo of takeout food sat on the table with George’s cat sniffing at it with interest. The text that follows simply reads: _Should I give her some?_

Dream smiles and saves the photo. 

_Yes. It’s her food now._ He types back. 

It takes a few minutes before George responds. It’s another picture of his cat sitting far away from the food now, visibly annoyed. What catches Dream’s eye though is neither the disgruntled cat nor the abandoned food. 

George’s hand is caught at the bottom corner of the photo, flicking the bird towards the feline. There’s something almost delicate in the way his fingers, pale and soft, curve and shape themselves. Only George could make something as crude as flipping someone off almost artful. 

Dream wonders how those same alabaster hands would look wrapped around a steering wheel, holding it in a white-knuckled grip, tendons shifting and skin flushing. He wonders how they would look pulling on the gear shift, as quick and swift as ever. He wonders and wonders. 

Dream likes the photo and puts his phone down. 


	2. stop and wait a sec

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You want to see my hands?” 
> 
> George coughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I do NOT have a hand kink  
> also me: writes this chapter

There’s several curses that come with being the middle child. 

Growing up in a household full of both older siblings who would pick apart everything he did and younger siblings who would trail after him to the ends of the earth, Dream had often felt like he had gotten life’s short end of the stick. Not old enough to be respected, not young enough to be pampered, but _family_ enough to be constantly harassed by his annoying sisters and brother. 

He would go to his mom, brimming with complaints and short temper, every time his siblings did something and every time, she would pat him on the shoulder and say: “Ignore them and they’ll go away.” 

_Maybe_ , Dream thinks as he goes about his day, staying _far_ away from his phone, _the same philosophy could be applied to whatever’s going on with his feelings towards George._

However, ignoring something is easier said than done.

As the hours tick by, he goes about his day like any other person would. He works on some plug-ins, promptly abandons them, feeds Patches, feeds himself less enthusiastically, goes for a painful run. It seems normal. 

It also feels like acting out a poorly written play. 

Still, he doesn’t let himself touch the thing in his head, doesn’t let himself sit down and analyze the growing monstrosity that is his _feelings_. That’s a problem for another time, another year, another person that isn’t Dream. This beast can wait and maybe, with time, it can go the hell away.

The sun is setting by the time Dream makes it back to his bedroom.

He sighs as he falls back on his bed, head pounding. His phone sits next to him, face down and only inches away. It _taunts_ him. 

His hands itch suddenly and though he isn’t a smoker, he sort of wishes he had a cigarette lit between his fingers right now. Anything to get his mind off of this. 

He wishes he was in his car driving far, far away from this mess.

“A look wouldn’t hurt, right?” He says to no one in particular. His voice rings throughout his house, echoing off sparse walls and empty rooms. He’s greeted back with nothing except the buzz of the heater and faint music playing from the radio. “I’m just going to check Twitter and other stuff, I’m not gonna talk to George.” 

Patches who’s padding by leisurely pauses to fix him with an unimpressed look. 

“I’m _not_.” He protests. She blinks back. Bitch. 

The only rational part of Dream, something very tiny and hidden in the back of his brain, warns him not to. He ignores the insistent admonition and grabs his phone. 

He logs onto Twitter, likes some of his friend’s tweets. He goes on Youtube, watches some videos. An antsy, twitchy feeling crawls up and down his spine.

_Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it._

He cracks after 20 minutes. 

Cautiously, he clicks on the message app and opens up their conversation with even more hesitancy. The photo is still there: George’s stupid cat is still glaring at the camera, George’s stupid takeout food is still sitting on the table, and George’s _stupid_ hand is still in the corner of the picture, all sharp lines and pale skin. 

Dream tries not to glare at the offending hand. 

He’s in the middle of debating whether or not he should chuck his phone at the wall, just to be dramatic, when George’s text bubble suddenly pops up indicating that he’s typing. 

Oh, _hell_. 

Something not quite happiness, not quite horror rises in Dream’s stomach. 

He waits.

George: _Hi._

Dream nearly drops his phone in his hurry to answer back. 

Dream: _Hello._

This time, George sends two messages, back to back. 

George: You _were typing for a while now lol I kept waiting for you to say smth._

George: Are _you okay?_

Dream contemplates throwing his phone at the wall again. The action seems more appealing by the second.

Painstakingly, he types out his reply. 

Dream: Yeah _sorry. I was just trying to find this meme I saved earlier._

It’s not the best excuse he’s ever made up while being put on the spot but sue him, he’s emotionally vulnerable. George types, stops, then types again. Dream watches the three dots with bated breath, praying that George won’t think too much of it. 

George: Oh _okdy._

George: _*okay_

George: _Stupid cat bit my finger after I took that photo and now I have bandages all over my hand and I can’t type for shit._

Dream snorts. ‘ _Deserve for bullying cats.’_ He sends, rolling onto his back and biting back a smile.

George’s response is a simple sad face. 

_‘Send me a photo.’_ Dream texts back. 

_‘No.’_ George replies, lightning fast.

Dream frowns. ‘ _Please????’_

George: _No._

Dream: _Please._

George: _No._

Dream dials George’s number. 

He gets two rings in before he realizes he might have just made a fatal mistake. 

  
  
  
  
—  
  


  
“I don't really give my number to people on the internet.” George had said years ago, voice high and reedy. He had sounded nervous. 

Dream’s stomach had twisted and turned at the edge of fear, the twinge of anxiety in George’s voice. 

“Then you don't have to.” He had said back in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “Discord is good enough anyways.”

It was true. Discord hadn't ever failed them and it wouldn't start now. Dream would always respect what George decided in the end—whether or not it was what Dream himself wanted. 

A more selfish part of him had wished that this wouldn't be the case. Not this time at least. 

He had stared at George’s avatar on Discord, twisting his fingers around the sleeves of his hoodie, waiting for it to be outlined by familiar green. Waiting for George’s choice. 

“I won't—” Dream’s mouth had opened when the silence had stretched far too wide. The words had come tumbling out like they’d been waiting for this very moment. “I won't use it. It’s just in case of emergencies, in case something bad happens and I _need_ to reach you.” He had swallowed and taken a deep breath. “I won't text you like crazy or try to call you every second of the day.” 

“So you won't call me?” George had asked. “Ever?”

Dream would have liked nothing _less._

“If that's what you want.” He had choked out. 

“If that's what _I_ want.” George had sounded hesitantly curious like he couldn't believe Dream would let him have the final say. He was so stupid sometimes. “Well, what do _you_ want?”

_What did he want?_

“I want you to give me your number.” Dream had blurted out.. “I want to call you.”

_I want to have you at my fingertips and have you close to me._

“Oh yeah? And when would you like to call me?” George’s voice had turned teasing. It had been the perfect segway for the conversation to lighten up from its unusually somber state. 

All Dream had to do was make a flirtatious joke about _“calling during the night when it was just them two alone.”_ He could have. It would have been so incredibly easy to fall back on the safety net of familiar banter and just let the whole number thing go. 

He didn't though. 

“Whenever you will let me.” He had murmured. His words had tumbled out of his throat, raspy and raw. He had felt, inexplicably, like he was being bared naked for the whole world to see. “Whenever you want to have me.” 

George’s breath had _caught_. Dream had heard the way it stopped for a moment, heard the way it had shakily returned to George as he inhaled. His heart was at his throat. 

The silence was deafening. 

Dream had been about to lose hope completely when George spoke up, apprehensive. 

“I sent it to you.” The simple words had shaken Dream’s world, had rattled him to the core. He had never clicked faster on his DMs. 

The numbers had stared back at him on his screen, beckoning like an invitation. 

“Thank you.” He had blurted out like some idiot. “I—uh—thanks.”

“You're welcome.” George’s tone had shifted again, something more lighthearted. “If you spam me with bad memes, I’m blocking you forever.” 

“ _George_!”

  
  
  
—  
  
  
  


Dream keeps his promise. 

He sends his texts to George sparingly. He’s hardly ever the person to initiate phone calls. When he _does_ call George, though, it’s usually only when he really needs the other. 

Phone calls between them are something sacred in Dream’s eyes. They are something to be used sparingly and cautiously because he’s never quite sure when this privilege will be snatched away from him. With George, it's almost impossible to know. 

Until now. 

George answers after four rings. 

“Dream?” He asks, confusion and concern making his voice turn gentler than it already is. Dream wants to curl into the sound and let it wrap around his shoulders like a warm blanket. 

“Send me the photo, bitch.” Dream says because the only other words he can think of saying are _“I’m sorry for calling”_ and _“Your voice makes me feel something unfathomable.”_

George scoffs. “No means no.” 

“Will you please reconsider?” Dream simpers into the receiver, affecting a horribly posh British accent. His grin widens as he hears George struggle to hold back a laugh. 

“Stop doing that! You sound so stupid.” George splutters through his snickers. 

“But is it working?”

“No.”

Dream pouts. “You're a cruel man.”

“You want to see it that bad?” 

“ _George_ ,” Dream sighs. “I want nothing more.”

George pauses. “Liar.” He says, eventually. Dream can practically hear the pleased smile curled on his face. He suddenly, desperately wishes they were video calling instead. 

“I’m not lying!” 

“Hm.” George sounds contemplative. “How about a trade?”

“Oh?” Dream sits up, intrigued. “What are you suggesting?”

“An eye for an eye as, uh, Aristotle once said. You give me what I give you.”

Dream wheezes. “Aristotle didn’t say that, idiot.” Then he freezes, blinking rapidly as he mentally replays George’s words in his head. _You give me what I give you._ “Wait, do you mean—”

“You don't have to.” George cuts in. If Dream didn't know any better, he would say that George almost sounded _nervous_. “I was just, uh…”

“You want to see my hands?” 

George coughs. 

“I was, um, I was just gonna post it on Twitter and make the fans lose their minds. Since they're obsessed with your hands for some reason. Don’t—don’t make it weird.”

Oh. 

Dream flops back down, ignoring the way his pulse jackrabbits in his ears, the way his face feels like it’s catching on fire. 

“Okay.” 

George inhales, sharp and confused. “Okay?” He echoes, quiet.

“Sure.” Dream’s voice catches. He clears his throat, forcing his words to come out steady, unwavering. “But you first.” 

George huffs shakily. “Yeah, yeah.” 

“I just don’t want you to cop out on me.” Dream hears shuffling on George’s end, faint tapping indicating that he’s taking the photo. Anticipation coils itself around Dream and squeezes leaving him breathless and aching. He waits and waits. 

His phone chimes. 

Dream pries the phone from his ear and stares at the screen. 

A single notification from George. _Attachment: 1 Image._

Heart at his throat, Dream opens it. 

George’s hand is splayed against his bedsheets, palm down. A band-aid is wrapped around his thumb and a couple more are scattered over his knuckles, battle scars from the earlier fight with his cat. George’s skin glows as pale as moonlight, contrasted further by the dull tan of the band-aids covering his hands. Dream stares, tracing the graceful joints and faint outlines of veins with hungry eyes. 

Dream’s always appreciated artists and their immense talent to immortalize life, but he had never _wanted_ to be one. In this moment, though, he would like nothing more than to capture George’s hand on paper and hang it up in a museum for the world to admire. 

He doesn’t realize how quiet he’s being until George calls out for him. 

“Dream? Are you there?” 

Dream swallows. “Yeah.” He rasps. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay. How bad does my hand look?” 

Dream wants to put George’s fingers in his mouth. 

“Hideous.”

George sighs. “Rude.” Then, he clears his throat, almost shy. “Your turn.” 

Dream reluctantly tears his eyes away in the photo. He opens the camera app and stretches his hand up towards the ceiling. He flattens it and spreads his fingers, mirroring the position George’s hand had been in the picture. 

His hand looks strange in comparison to George’s, much too tan and bulky. If George is delicate and porcelain then Dream is clumsy and rough. He frowns up at his outstretched hand.

Would George even want to see it?

“Did you send it?” 

Dream blinks as George’s voice rings out through the phone speakers, restless. 

“Patience, sweetheart.” He responds. His joking tone falls flat, crushed under the weight of the unnamed, suffocating tension filling the room and his lungs. George falls silent. Dream’s words hang in the air, suspended and stuck. 

He clears his throat, snaps the photo, and sends it. 

He strains his ears, waiting from George to say something once the message goes through. The other man stays quiet. Only the telltale rise and fall of his breath fills Dream’s ears. 

The seconds tick by as Dream’s nerves grow more and more frayed. 

“Ge—” 

“Your hands are big.” 

Dream blinks as George cuts him off, almost harshly. His words are strained, a touch too breathless to be normal. Dream looks down at his hand now resting by his side. He flexes it reflexively.

“I, yeah, they’re bigger than most people’s. They’re definitely bigger than yours.”

“Oh yeah?” George’s voice sounds casual. Almost deceptively so. “How do you know?”

Dream snorts, looking back at his screen, staring at George’s photo again. 

“You’re tiny.” 

“I’m a perfectly normal height.” George protests. 

Dream’s gaze drops down to George’s wrist, partially covered by his sweater sleeves. His wrist is as thin and pale as the rest of George himself.

“I could probably hold both your wrists in one hand.” Dream says, more to himself than to the phone. He thinks about it, wrapping his fingers around the bones of George’s wrists and feeling George’s pulse flutter under the pads of his fingertips. His blood feels scorching in his veins. “I could probably pin them down too, hold them in place.”

George _chokes_.

Dream flushes and backtracks _.Too far._ “Sorry, um, I—”

‘No, um, it’s fine.” George stutters. “I actually, uh, I have to...I have to go.”

“Oh.” Dream manages. Disappointment mixed with relief curls low in his gut. “Um, yeah, I get it. Me too.”

The air between them is tense, tightly wound and just seconds away from snapping.

“Bye.” George says. “I—um, bye. I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” Dream responds, head spinning. “Okay.”

The line goes dead. 

Dream blankly stares at his phone, heart thudding, until sleep reluctantly seizes him. 

George never did tweet the pictures. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey thank u for reading!! kudos and comments are appreciated <333 tell me what u think!!


	3. probably still adore you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can make me yours if you’d like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream smokes weed in this and thinks many thoughts.

Dream’s back in the car, hands on the steering wheel and foot on the gas pedal. 

This time however, he can see where he’s driving. He’s on a stretch of highway with the beautiful sunset sky plastered behind him. If he squints enough he can barely make out other cars in the distance. 

It’s almost...Relaxing.

He’s in the middle of executing a sloppy lane switch when he feels his vision go dark. 

For half a second, he wonders if he’s suddenly gone blind. Panic almost drives him to let his car spin out of control. 

Then he registers that something is being held against his eyes, acting like a blindfold and obstructing his vision. He feels the pressure of skin against skin, warmth against warmth. It’s a pair of hands. 

There’s someone sitting behind him. 

Dream releases the gas pedal slowly, letting his car slow down.

“What—” He asks.

“Guess who.” The person whispers in his ear, playful. Dream’s heart jumps in his chest. He knows this voice almost as well as he knows his own. 

“George, stop.” He says, mind buzzing. 

He reaches out and touches the hands covering his eyes. (He means to pry them away). 

Instead, he traces the ridges of the knuckles and the bumps of the joints, trailing his own fingers up and down expansive skin. George shudders behind him and, despite being separated by a car seat, Dream can feel the reverberations of it up his spine. 

He presses his hands over George’s hands and feels something _shift_ in his heart.

“How’d you know it was me?” George asks. He doesn’t remove his hands from their position though. Dream doesn’t either. 

“Who else could it be but you?” The words feel raw and unfiltered in his mouth. They catch in his teeth as they leave him. 

George’s laugh is quiet. 

“I have to say, you were right.” 

“About what?” Dream murmurs, distracted. George is moving ever so slightly behind him. Dream can feel him shuffling around in the backseat, coming closer and closer. 

When George speaks next, his lips brush over the shell of Dream ear. 

“Your hands really are bigger.” 

Dream startles.

He slams the brake hard enough that he and George should have both gone flying out of their seats—miraculously, they both stay upright—and bats George’s hands off his face. George lets out a tiny noise of surprise.

Dream whips around and stares at him. He raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” He leans forward, ever so slightly. His eyes are so dark. “Do you not agree?” 

Dream swallows. 

“You could probably hold both my wrists with one hand.” George’s eyelashes flutter against the delicate skin under his eyes. He holds up one hand lazily, holding it in front of Dream like it’s bait and Dream is some ravenous animal. It feels almost like a trap. “You could probably pin me down, hold me in place.” 

His own words coming out of George’s mouth hits Dream like a tidal wave. He looks down, face flushing, nerves fraying.

“George.” 

“So why don’t you?” George’s voice goes low, intimate. “I would let you. I would like it. I know you would like it more than you can even comprehend.” 

Dream digs his fingers into his thighs, nails scraping against denim jeans. “George.” He repeats. He pleads. 

George ignores him.

“You can make me yours if you’d like.” He lets his wandering fingers graze over the curve of Dream’s jaw. In turn, Dream lets his eyes flicker to his face, all pretty cheekbones and pink cheeks. 

He is not a religious man, but he wonders what it would be like to worship at George’s altar. He wonders how many fools have tried and how many have left with nothing but a broken heart. 

“ _George_.” Dream whispers. 

“I won’t even make you beg for it.” 

Something in Dream snaps. 

He grabs George’s lingering hand and pulls it closer, making the man in question tip forward as well. Dream relishes in the hint of surprise that breaks through George’s marble face as they stare each other down. 

Neither are moving forward, neither are backing away.

“I’m not going to be the one left whining for more when we’re done.” He says matter-of-factly, though his traitorous heart thuds and shakes in his rib cage. 

George’s smile curls wider. 

“You think you can make me beg for you?” He asks. His nose brushes against Dream’s.

“I know I can.” The distance between them is all at once vast and miniscule. “That’s all you’ll be doing once I’m through with you.” 

The next words are a challenge. Something heated and something so tangible it hurts to listen to. 

“ _Prove it_.” 

Dream leans in, blood thrumming in his veins. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dream wakes. 

He wakes with sweat on his brow, aching desperately for something. For skin on skin. For heat. 

_Fuck._

He lets his hand rest over his stomach, itching to slide it down to where he wants it the most. 

Flashes of George’s sweet smiles and coy words play in his head, a never ending loop set to torture Dream. He thinks of George’s hands, dainty and slender. He thinks of covering them with his own larger ones and encompassing them completely. 

He thinks about almost kissing George. 

His fingers twitch on his abdomen. They graze the top of his sweats and he’s so tempted to just reach down, down—

Guilt and confusion are the restraints that stop his sleep muddled actions. 

Guilt over even thinking about jerking off to a mildly hot dream about one of his best friends. Confusion over what the _hell_ his brain was doing by giving him a mildly hot dream about one of his best friends. 

Christ. 

He dreamt a mildly hot dream about George and he fucking _liked_ it. 

What was he doing? 

Panic laps at the edges of his already deteriorating sanity. 

He struggles into a sitting position, grimacing slightly at the way his t-shirt clings to his back, damp with sweat. His shoulders feel tense and his head is already pounding with an incoming headache. 

He scrubs a hand across his face. His neck aches something awful. Hesitantly, he reaches for his phone. 

He grimaces at the time, how had he slept until 3PM? He sends a mental apology to his internal clock and studies his lockscreen. 

Once again, he’s been bombarded by a plethora of notifications from friends and business partners alike while he had been out cold. He ignores them all in favor of George. 

George had sent him a simple: _‘Hi.'_ a couple hours ago. Dream tries not to feel relieved that he actually texted like he had promised. He types hesitantly.

  
  


_Have you ever dreamt about_ —

Dream frowns and hits backspace. 

  
  


_I think I dreamt about_ —

He deletes the message. 

  
  


_Hey. You streaming again today?_

Dream sends the text. It feels oddly like copping out.

  
  


After a few minutes go by with no response, so he tosses his phone on his bed and trudges to the bathroom. 

Fifteen minutes and a very cold shower later, he stumbles back into the bedroom. He’s greeted with new messages from George. His heart thuds. 

  
  


George: _Yeah_

George: _Wanna join?_

Dream: _What’re you doing?_

George: _Just chilling on minecraft._

  
  


Dream chews on his nail and walks downstairs, thinking about what to ask. He gets to the kitchen when he finally types his next message and presses send. 

  
  


Dream: _Is it gonna be just you?_

  
  


He watches as George types, anxiety curling around him in a vice-like grip. He rolls his shoulders back slowly, trying to work through the dull pain. 

  
  


George: _Sapnap’s gonna be on too._

  
  


He doesn't really know whether or not he’s disappointed or elated at that. He doesn't dwell on it. 

  
  


Dream: _Idk if I can._

Dream: _I’ll try to join later on, k?_

  
  


George’s reply is an amicable ‘ _sure’_ and Dream’s ready to shut his phone off and rifle around the cupboards for some Tylenol when he receives another text. This time though, the notification is not from George but from Sapnap. 

  
  


Sapnap: _i had the weirdest dream last night._

  
  


Dream’s eyes widen. 

Shame and horror seize him, rendering him nearly motionless for a few minutes. Did Sapnap somehow...know what he dreamt of last night? Who he dreamt of? Had he and Sapnap somehow gotten so close over the years that their hippocampi were interconnected? Would Dream have to cut off all communication with his friends and flee the internet in mortification forever? 

Hands shaking, he types out his response. 

  
  


Dream: _?_

  
  


Sapnap: _it was so weird dude. you did a face reveal but you looked EXACTLY like george... but you somehow convinced everyone that you were actually him this whole time._

Sapnap: _you went on ellen and george got arrested for impersonating you. wack._

  
  


Despite everything, Dream laughs. “What the fuck.” He murmurs to himself. 

  
  


Dream: _What the hell._

Dream: _You’re insane._

Sapnap: _told you it was weird._

Dream: _You literally know what I look like????_

Sapnap: _but do i really, georgenotfound????_

  
  


Dream’s smile fades as he stares back down at the screen. He writes his question, fingers flying over the tiny keyboard. After a moment of hesitation, he sends it. 

  
  


Dream: _But you don’t think it means anything?_

Sapnap: _uh_ _what could it even mean?_

Sapnap: _unless my brain’s telling me that you’ll commit identity fraud in the future or something._

Dream: _But aren’t dreams supposed to mean something metaphorical...Like don’t they reveal hidden feelings or secret desires or something?_

Sapnap: _secret desires? i don’t think so._

Sapnap: _dreams don’t always mean something._

Sapnap: _you good man?_

  
  


Dream blanches and types the first thing that pops into his head. 

  
  


Dream: _Then why did I dream about ur mom last night?_

  
  


It’s not his most elegant save but it will do. As Sapnap spams the chat with middle finger emojis, Dream sighs a breath of relief and turns his phone off with a quiet click.

“Dreams don’t always mean something.” He repeats to himself. 

Massaging the back of his neck, he wracks his brain. Thinking. Rationalizing. 

He knows this. He’s had weird unexplainable dreams before too: nightmares about showing up to school naked, awkward sex dreams about the most random people. He’s been through it all.

His subconscious holds no power over him. It _should_ have no power over him.

He glances over at his kitchen counter, a flash of silver catching his eye. 

His car keys lay innocently on the table. 

  
  


_“You think you can make me beg for you?”_

_“You can make me yours, if you'd like.”_

_“Prove it.”_

  
  


Dream buries his head into his hands and curses God for everything. It’s official. He’s never getting in his car ever again. He’s never gonna even think about that lump of metal.

Dream just doesn’t want to think. 

Fuck, his limbs feel like they’re gonna snap from the tension. His brain is practically splintering from all the worrying and confusion it’s been suffering through. He needs an out. 

He wrenches open the cabinets in search of pain medication and some snacks. While he’s rummaging through half empty boxes of cat treats and Poptarts, a clear jar catches his eye. It’s stashed in the darkest corner, meant to stay hidden from the casual eye. 

Dream had shoved it in there when his mom and youngest sister came for a surprise visit a few days ago. 

He stares at the jar and at what is in it, filling the jar up to the brim. 

Fuck Tylenol. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dream’s floating. 

Well, not really. He’s sitting in his bed and he can feel everything and nothing at the same time and it feels _so_ good. 

For the first time in a while, his head is clear. The invisible weight pressing down on his shoulders and rendering him weak is gone. He’s so far gone, further than he’s been in a long while, yet he can’t bring himself to be mad about it. 

Actually, he can’t bring himself to become negative about anything. 

He stretches on his comforter, feeling content and loose-limbed, as a small smile grows on his lips. Something plays in the background, a song with heavy guitars and a lead singer with a voice of gold. 

The man croons about imaging his lover waiting for him with “a hand between their thighs” and Dream grins. 

The loud beat seeps into his bones and buzzes through his pleasantly empty brain. No more thoughts about weird dreams or cars or George and his stupid hands or Minecraft—

Dream sits bolt upright. _George. George’s stream._ He had promised he would at least try to pop in for a little bit. 

He checks the time. He still had a little time to join, dick around, and give the viewers some content. 

A voice in the back of his head tells him that maybe, joining a stream while being higher than the clouds isn’t the smartest choice to make. He quashes the sensible words down until they’re nothing but mush. People didn’t get far in life by being boring and responsible. 

Somewhere, his mother is suffering a massive, unexplainable headache. 

He peels himself off the bed, sits at his desk, and joins the Discord call. 

“Hello?” He calls out. His voice, raspy and deep from both disuse and inhaling smoke, breaks slightly. 

“Hello?” George says. Dream’s pulse quickens and he finds his lips parting into an ear splitting grin at the sound of his voice. So predictable of him. 

He opens Twitch on another window and clicks on George’s current stream. The sight of the man at the bottom corner of the screen greets him. 

He’s wearing his gray stupid Supreme hoodie and his dark hair is as pin straight as ever and Dream is utterly, completely _enthralled_. Dream watches as a small, pleased smile makes its way across George’s face. 

_I did that_ . He thinks giddily. _I made him smile._

“George!” Dream says. He joins the server with a few short clicks. “What’s up?”

“Wow.” Sapnap simpers on call. “No hello for me?” 

“No.” 

“You’re such a little bitch, Dream.” 

Dream rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles, feeling his bones pop satisfyingly. “Yeah? Come over here and let me kill you.” 

Sapnap screams in response. 

“Don’t commit manslaughter on my stream.” George says but his usually mild voice sounds strange. 

Dream’s eyes flicker towards the stream yet again, drinking in the man for the second time today, and looks more closely. His cheeks are flushed and he’s fidgeting in his seat, a huge contrast to his usual calm posture. He looks softer than usual, like a fuzzy, not quite accurate copy of Dream’s friend. He looks like a dream. 

There’s something off about him that Dream’s blissed out mind can’t quite put a finger on. 

George seems almost...nervous. 

“What’s wrong, George?” Dream asks. He watches as George blinks blearily, caught off guard by the sudden question. 

“What?”

“You look weird.” Dream says. Distantly, as he notices how a frown begins to tug at George’s face, pulling his features down. 

“I look weird?” Hurt laces George’s voice and Dream feels his stomach drop to the soles of his socked feet. He hurries to backtrack. 

“No, um, you look good. You look fine. I was just—I didn’t mean—”

“Oh my god.” Sapnap cuts in, amusement and disbelief coloring his words. “Dream, are you high?” 

Dream snaps his mouth shut. He laughs awkwardly, glancing around his room and somewhat guilty at the stubbed out joints sitting on the ashtray on his bedside table. He might have to analyze the “shared brain with Sapnap” hypothesis he had earlier because it’s starting to sound more plausible by the second. 

“No?” He says, more like a question than anything. 

Sapnap cackles. “This is too good. You’re too good.” 

Dream frowns at his screen. “I’m not. High that is. I _am_ good.”

He winces as Sapnap dissolves into obnoxious laughter.

“Guys,” Sapnap says, addressing George’s viewers. “George and I are stuck in a call with a high Dream. This is a nightmare.” 

“You’re a nightmare.” Dream snaps petulantly. “George, smack him for me.” 

“Don’t do it, George.” Sapnap warns. He yelps as George’s on screen character hits him. “You whore!” 

Dream smiles, leans closer to his mic. “Thank you. You’re my hero, Gogy. How can I ever repay you?” 

“Give me a thousand dollars.” George says easily. A bright look glints in his eyes as he shuffles closer to the camera. Dream watches the way his dark hair falls over his forehead, the way his upper body shifts with a sort of fluid ease that Dream envies. George is really, _really_ attractive.

“What.” George’s eyes, wide and somewhat terrified, jerk off screen. 

Dream blinks. Warmth floods his cheeks as he realizes he just said that _out loud_. Maybe this was a bad idea. George’s chat explodes with exclamations and keyboard smashes that Dream can barely make out.

He clears his throat. “What?” He says, playing dumb. 

“He said you’re hot!” Sapnap says, helpfully. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Dream is going to drive down to Sapnap’s house, distance be damned, and _strangle_ the man. They’ll never be able to find his body. His mother will weep over her stupid son who died because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Dream forces himself to keep his voice amused. “I’ll repay you with words of praise instead. You’re so cool and awesome and hot, George. You’re the best Minecraft player I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up.” George replies. He glances at the camera, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Dream resists the urge to reach out and touch the screen, tracing the curve of teeth against lips. 

Yearning eats at his stomach, chipping him away slowly by the second. 

He clears his throat and leans back. “So what are we doing today?” 

They go about the stream normally, joking and talking with one another. It feels so normal, so easy that Dream lets himself relax into it. 

He has a shit filter most of the time, even when he’s at his most sober and self-aware. Now, it feels like the barrier between his mouth and brain is nonexistent. He lets words, anything ranging from random phrases to deep philosophical questions, spill out of his mouth without a second thought. 

Sapnap and George entertain him though Dream can tell they’re clearly amused by his weed induced rambling. 

“What do you want the most in the world?” Dream asks, lazily feeding apples to a nearby grazing horse. 

“George wants Supreme more than world peace.” Sapnap jokes. 

“What I want is for Sapnap to shut up.” George says without missing a beat.

Dream snickers as their two on screen avatars start flying at each other, hitting and smacking with vengeance. “C’mon, stop, what do you guys really want?” 

“Why?” George snorts. “Are you going to buy it for us?” 

Dream glances over to the stream. George is smiling ever so slightly, gentle amusement crinkling his face. 

_I’ll buy the whole world for you if you keep smiling like that._

“Fuck, no.” Dream says. 

Sapnap laughs. “I want to finish this school year without dying.” 

“I want,” George hesitates. “I want more shoes.” 

“I want to see you guys.”

A surprised pause falls over them. 

They don’t normally talk like this. Not on streams, not for the world to see. 

“We have to do something cool when George visits.” Dream keeps talking, fingers tapping along his desk in a jumpy beat. “Something unforgettable.” 

“Can we go to Disney World?” Sapnap asks, tone light. 

“You’re paying for everything if we do.” George counters. 

“Sure. Or a road trip around the country.” Dream thinks about it. Thinks about driving everywhere and nowhere with Sapnap at his back and George at his side. Thinks about all the places they could go together, _because_ they were together.

“Sounds fun.” Sapnap chirps and Dream feels affection bloom at his excited tone. Nobody wanted them all together more than he did. “You can finally teach George how to drive.”

George laughs nervously. “Well, Dream doesn’t have—”

“Sure.” Dream leans his head on his hand. “I’ll teach you how to drive.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll be patient with you, we can take our time. It'll be fun.” 

George coughs. “How do I know?”

“Hm?” 

“How do I know if I can trust you?” George’s voice is quiet, a touch too shaky to be normal.

“Come down to Florida and find out for yourself.” His voice sounds strange in his ears. He sounds like a smitten stranger. 

He looks to the stream to see George focusing on the game, face a careful blank slate. Dream wonders, not for the first time, what exactly is going through his mind. 

“Maybe.”

Dream stares. 

“What?” He croaks. 

“Maybe.” George repeats. His cheeks are flushed with the lightest of pinks as he resolutely stares down at his lap. “Maybe I will go and see what the hype is about.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thanks for reading ur comments and kudos mean so much to me mwah mwah mwah!! sending a billion kisses. also im changing things up a bit with this story so tags are probably gonna change along with it!


	4. crumble completely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream hums, cradling the phone close to his ear. 
> 
> “You’re right. You only scream for me, don’t you?” 
> 
> (gay people have sexual tension what else is new)

George ends the stream not long after that. 

They stay on call a bit longer before Sapnap heads off, complaining about an ungodly amount of university projects he’s saddled with. 

Then it’s just Dream and George in one call. 

“Want to call?” George asks a few minutes after Sapnap leaves. 

Dream glances at the Discord tab. “We’re...on a call.” He says slowly. 

“I mean a phone call. Let’s hang up here.” 

Dream raises an eyebrow but agrees.

He barely finishes pressing the ‘accept’ button on George’s incoming phone call before the man on the other end blurts out: “Were you serious?”

“About what?” Dream shifts in his seat, shaking out his right foot which had fallen asleep a while ago. 

“About me coming to Florida?” 

“I’ve been serious about that for years. Ever since I first offered to fly you out.” 

“Oh.”

Dream wishes he still had access to seeing George’s face on camera. He wonders what faint expression flittered past the other man’s face when he had said those words. Surprise? Confusion? Happiness?

He clears his throat, hope rising. “Are you—”

“I’m not sure yet.” George says quickly. Curtly.

“So don’t you want to come?”

“I do but,” George hesitates. “It’s complicated.”

“How is it complicated? It’s just a trip.”

“It’s not just anything, Dream. It’s never been just anything.”

Dream frowns. He’s still somewhat high, mind comfortably fuzzy and soft, and George’s words make _no_ sense. It had always been just them; just Dream and George against the world. _Didn’t George want that to stay?_

“What do you mean?” He whispers. 

“Give me some time to think about it.” Is all George responds back with.

Dream can’t help but feel a little crushed, irritation quick to follow in its footsteps.

“You’ve been thinking about it forever.” He tries to keep his temper out of his voice, tries to stamp it down to ashes, yet a sliver of it bleeds through his words. “When will you give me an answer?”

“I’ll give you an answer when I have one.” George says, clipped. Even separated by millions of miles, even separated by phone lines, Dream can feel the cold words bite at his skin.

“Okay.” He backtracks. “Okay. Promise you’ll consider it? Seriously?” 

“I have been since the moment you first asked.” George replies. His stiff tone is loosening somewhat and. Dream sighs, accepting the thawing statement for what it is. They move on. 

“I think I’m gonna crash soon.” Dream groans, stretching his arms out. “This ones gonna be bad.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I can feel myself coming down from the high.” 

“Is it any different from, like, sobering up after being drunk?”

Dream huffs out a laugh. “Uh yeah totally. Haven’t you ever been high before?” 

George’s pause stretches a bit too wide. 

“George,” Dream says, incredulous. “How the hell have you never been—”

“I’ve smoked a few times!” George exclaims. “I never really liked it though. I didn’t really feel anything and it was boring.” 

“You’ve probably been smoking shitty weed.” Dream rakes a hand through his hair. “Or you’ve been smoking with the wrong people.” 

“Oh,” George’s voice lilts, questioning. “Does it matter who you smoke with?”

“It makes all the difference in the world.” 

“How so?”

“Well, when you’re high, it’s like you feel everything and nothing at the same time.” 

“That makes no sense.”

“Sure it does.” Dream leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. “It’s like your senses are hyper aware but mind numbingly, y’know? It’s freeing.” 

“You’re so weird.” He can hear George moving around in the background, probably moving from his desk to his bed. The thought sends a jolt of _something_ down his spine. 

“I’m not weird, it’s literally how it feels! The things that you like become a billion times more amazing and the things you hate become a billion times more tolerable. Totally different from being drunk.” 

“You’re doing a really bad job at explaining it.” George laughs lightly. “What becomes better when you’re high?”

“Dude,” Dream waves a hand for emphasis, ignoring the fact that George can’t see the gesture. It’s the thought that counts. “ _Everything_.” 

“Minecraft?” George asks.

“I guess.” Dream shrugs. 

“Food?” 

“Oh, even a bag of chips is nirvana when you’re high.” 

“Even Quavers?” 

“What the fuck is a Quaver.” 

George laughs and the sound rings in Dream’s ears, as clear and pretty as bells. “You guys don’t have Quavers? Thank God.” 

_‘All the more reason to come here.’_ Dream, very wisely, manages to stop himself from saying. 

George hums. Pauses ever so slightly. 

“What about jerking off?” He asks. Point blank. 

Dream blinks. 

“Um.” He says, stupidly. 

And honestly it is incredibly stupid, because they joke about sex all the time, they joke about sex in front of thousands of people for a _living_ , there’s no point in him being surprised that George asked this. Yet...

He’s suddenly, inexplicably, out of his depth. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s better.” He manages after a beat.

When George gives an encouraging “oh?,” Dream hesitantly continues. 

“It feels fucking good, actually.” Buoyed by George’s attention, he lets himself ease into it. Just two homies, talking about stoned masturbation, together on the phone. It was almost funny. “The first time I did it, I almost passed out after.”

George laughs, a breathy little thing. “You’re not really selling it.”

“I almost passed out from how good it was, idiot. I swear, I’ve never felt like that before.” 

“Like what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He laughs, resting his hands on his stomach to keep them from fidgeting. The urge to get up from his chair and pace around his room eats at him. Fuck, he had never been too good at dealing with nerves.

He half expects George to brush him off with an embarrassed laugh. 

That’s why his next words send Dream sitting up in his seat, fingers tightening around his phone.

“I do.” George’s voice is quiet. “I really do.”

Oh.

Dream clears his throat.

“Like I could feel every nerve in my body. Like I could feel everything and anything a hundred times over.”

He hears George inhale a sharp breath. He keeps talking because that’s all he’s ever known.

“It felt like I had been shocked by electricity or something. The touch, the heat, it was almost too much for me, honestly.”

He manages a soft, rueful chuckle. “I think I almost woke my neighbors, I was so damn _loud_.”

“I never thought you would be vocal.” George sounds strangled. Dream wants to sink into the noise, he wants to hold it close and press into it. 

“I’m not usually.” He murmurs. “Not without weed. Not without the right motivation.”

His past lovers can attest to him being all quiet gasps and inhales at the best of times. Usually, he prides himself in being the one to get his lovers to crumble completely underneath him, whether it be by his actions or words. He’s a perfectionist by nature and it shows in the meticulous love bites he leaves behind or the beautiful moans he draws out in bed. 

He doesn’t normally allow himself the same luxury. 

Yet, something about weed lets him. It lets him be uncoordinated, imperfect, and messy. It’s wonderful. It’s terrifying.

His palm on his stomach is suddenly searing, heat palpable even through the layers of clothing. 

“Guess that was kind of stupid of me. You’re always screeching.” George tries, obviously trying to sound as blank as ever. Still, Dream can hear the undercurrent of _something_ in the other’s voice and the shakiness makes him want to shudder. 

“I think you’re mistaking me for yourself.” He says lightly. “You’re the one that screams at everything.”

“Not everything.” George sounds petulant. 

Dream hums, cradling the phone close to his ear. 

“You’re right. You only scream for me, don’t you?” 

In any other circumstance, his words would have been something stupid. A joke they could brush off with scoffs and rolled eyes. 

Here though, the words hang in the air between them. A statement hidden in the form of a question, a truth disguised as an inquisition. 

George stays quiet. “I don’t.” He protests. He sounds hoarse and Dream allows himself to conjure a mental image of him splayed on his bed, face pink and breathing labored. 

It nearly unravels Dream right then and there. 

His hand slips to his sternum. Almost on its own accord.

“Oh.” He says. “So, are you screaming for everyone now?”

“What if I am?” George responds, still as snappy and quick as ever. 

Dream can practically see his shit-eating grin and he’s overcome with the sudden urge to reach out and cover those glorious lips with his hand. George would probably glare up at him with his big, dark eyes and bite into Dream’s palm of his hand in petty retaliation. 

He would probably leave marks. He would probably make Dream bleed. 

Dream clenches his fingers into the material of his hoodie. 

“Careful, George.” He says. “People might think you’re easy.” 

“As if.” George says. 

“Yeah, I agree. You’ve had, what, two significant others?” Dream grins lazily at George’s huff of annoyance. The heat in his stomach only burns hotter. “You probably last five minutes on a good day.” 

“Shut up.” George grumbles. 

“So it’s true?”

“I never said that.”

“Never denied it.”

“You’re a twat.” George says but his next words are cautious, curious. He’s interested, Dream realizes with a pang of delight, he wants to know more. “You probably last for five seconds.”

Dream snorts. “You don't have to project your insecurities onto me, George. I could go for hours.” 

George chokes. “Stop lying.”

Dream lets his head fall back, leaning on his head rest with a thunk. “Oh? But I’m not.”

“It’s about building up to the moment. Waiting for the other person to come so close only to pull them back. It’s about keeping them _aching_ , wanting for more.”

George’s breathing quickens. Dream feels his own going heavier. He keeps talking.

“Keep it gentle, keep it soft. Then, at the end, when you’re both at your wits end. You can go rough. You can take what’s yours and give them what is theirs.”

“Do you?”

“What?” Dream asks. 

“Do you go rough?” George’s voice...His voice is high and sweet and Dream is going to have humiliating dreams about it for the rest of time. He grips his phone tighter.

“Sometimes. I do whatever makes the other person beg for more.”

George’s breath hitches. 

“Do you like it rough?” Dream asks. He knows the answer before George even affirms it. 

“You like being pinned down and taken apart? You like bruises and marks painted over you? Is that what you like, George?” 

“Dream.” George gasps, weak. Dream’s fingers graze the hem of his sweatpants. He wants, desperately, to see George’s face. 

“I think you would look good with bruises. On your wrists. On your arms.” He manages. 

“Dream.”

“Maybe on your neck too. They’d look pretty even.”

“Do you really think so?” George’s voice is breathy. Dream’s fingertips brush over the soft material of his sweats. 

“You’d look beautiful with anything. Without anything.” 

George falls silent but Dream can hear the way he shifts close to the phone. How his breathing has gone still with shock, how white noise fills the receiver for a few seconds. 

Then George, honest to god, _whines_. 

Dream starts. He has to be dreaming some unusually hot fever dream again. This can’t be real. Did George just?

“George?”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” George hisses. “I-I didn’t, oh my god. You didn’t hear anything that was Cat—”

“Okay.” Dream replies, head spinning. “Okay.”

They fall silent for a few, tense seconds. 

“You can’t do this to me.” George says eventually, voice winded. 

Dream can’t even gloat at the fact he managed to get George to sound so broken when he himself feels seconds away from falling apart and shattering. “What am I doing?” He asks. “What am I doing to you?”

“Everything. Nothing.” 

“Show me.” Dream begs. “Please let me see.”

“No, it’s too—I can’t let you see me like this.” 

“Why?” Dream asks, trying to keep the devastation from crawling into his voice. A snapshot of George’s face is almost there, just within reach. Would his hair be mussed? Would his cheeks be pink? Would he be utterly because of Dream, for Dream? 

“You’re going to make fun of me, you’re gonna—”

So close but yet so far.

“Want to trade?” Dream blurts.

“What?”

He ignores George's query and pulls his phone away from his ear. He opens the camera app. 

He points the phone towards his face.

George has seen glimpses of him throughout their course of friendship but never of his entire face. He had never asked so Dream had never shared. It was a silent deal between them—one of the many unspoken barriers that separated the two. 

Now, however, something’s different. Something heavy, something suffocating lingers between them. They're at a precipice with no other choice to jump in head first. 

He snaps a photo.

Once the camera shutters, he clicks on the picture with trepidation. 

He’s covering the bottom half of his face with one hand, fingers pressing over a closed mouth and flushed freckled cheeks. His hand is large enough that it covers it well, though patches of tan skin peek out from the spaces between his fingers. 

The top half of his face, however, is exposed. 

Green blue eyes, half lidded and tired, stare off to the side, avoiding the camera lens directly. His thin eyebrows are scrunched up slightly. Messy strands of dirty blonde hair fall into his eyes and stick up every which way. 

The picture is grainy and dark—his face is half covered and partially in the shadows for Christ’s sake—but Dream feels as if he’s been stripped bare. 

He looks like a _wreck_. 

A wreck for George to see. A wreck for George.

"Dream?" George asks now, wary growing. "What are you—"

"An eye for an eye as Hammurabi once said." Dream says. "You give me what I give you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im back i wanted to take a bit of a break with this fic and i came back..having no idea what im doing once again lol. thanks for reading and commenting and leaving kudos!!! ur kind words mean so much !!!


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